


We're All Mad Here

by DifferentDances



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DifferentDances/pseuds/DifferentDances
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after The Fall a madman in a blue box offers John a chance to help save a piece of Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I once promised myself that I would never mix more than two fandoms (because as a reader it generally really, really annoys me), but this could not be helped because it won't just go away. I’m hoping I’m doing them all justice. Ten is hard to write because his mouth movements are so integral to his character but making non-clunky descriptions work was a challenge.
> 
> Not honestly sure this is going the slash route. I ship Sherlock/John, and wouldn't mind more Khan/John, but this story's resisting giving in. So...slap on your slash goggles, if you will.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock is alive, John Watson.”
> 
> John freezes, and then cannot help the broken laugh that escapes his lips. “ _Don’t_ ,” he warns. 
> 
> “Well, a part of him is, anyway. An echo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote John and Ten's conversation over London over and over. I think it works now. Better than it was, anyway. Ten is hard to get right, because he goes from kind of hyper to broody in a heartbeat or two.

It’s a big, blue, wooden phone box. John supposes that would be strange enough, given the few remaining police boxes in London are a gleaming bright red.

But it’s sitting in their small living room, by the couch Sherlock usually flings himself upon to sulk.

Or so he used to.

The sharp thought forces him to take a step back and remember to breathe. A month and the nightmares of Sherlock’s fall – the accusations, the self-recrimination, those abjectly lonely eyes – have yet to abate in frequency or intensity. 

Were Sherlock alive, he would be most intrigued by the sudden appearance of the police box.

But he is not, and John is forced to pull himself together. He checks his gun in his holster and approaches the box slowly, circling broadly as he comes nearer. “Hello?” he calls out, feeling mildly foolish. When he doesn’t get an answer, he shrugs and knocks on the door. “Hello, anyone there?” he tries again.

In the middle of his third rap on the door it swings open with a clatter. A unfamiliar man in a long, brown coat and trainers stands there, gazing at him with a familiar sort of gaze. John’s seen enough war-weariness in the mirror to recognize it in this man. The stranger flashes a grin at him and holds out his hand. “John Watson, I presume?”

John nods affably and shakes the man’s hand. This is no less weird than walking in on Irene Adler sitting nude with Sherlock. “Yes, and you are?” He doesn’t fail to notice that the room behind the figure is much, much bigger than the dimensions of the wooden box, but he makes no comment. He expects it’ll be relevant soon enough, or it won’t be. Sherlock’s taught him that much.

“I’m the Doctor,” the man says easily.

“Did Ella send you?” Christ, was he so hopeless that his therapist had referred him out? Must be one of those new agey types that favored unusual therapies. 

The man muses over that. “No, can’t say I know an Ella. Several Elizabeths, but no Ellas.” He quirks another grin at John.

John glances about. “So, is there a reason you’ve brought a blue police box to my living room?”

The man ruffles his hair in a charmingly awkward fashion. “Ah, well, it seemed a politer place than your bedroom. You humans have such funny ideas about bedroom territory, figured this was safer,” he says cheerfully, and John decides either the man is mad, or he is. This may be a hallucination, a psychic break. “Now, I need to ask you to come with me, John Watson.”

He backs away warily. “Where?” This lacked Mycroft’s smug touch, though the bastard kept driving by his workplace like clockwork on Tuesdays.

The man purses his lips thoughtfully. “Well, see, it’s more a matter of when than where. A man is in desperate need of your help.”

John forces himself to remain loose as he shrugs too casually. “I’m in no condition to treat anyone. There are other doctors. Yourself included. Goodday, and please take your blue box with you.” He turns his back so he can make his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

“Sherlock is alive, John Watson.”

John freezes, and then cannot help the broken laugh that escapes his lips. “ _Don’t_ ,” he warns. 

“Well, a part of him is, anyway. An echo.”

And John turns, grim curiosity overtaking his common sense. Had Sherlock and Irene Adler… “Sherlock had children?” (It both devastates him and breathes fresh hope into his stale heart.)

“Yeah, sure, definitely,” he says as though it’s obvious. Then he corrects himself: “Well, when I say children, I don’t really mean _children_ , just the one. And well, not so much a child as a grown adult. And, weeeell,” the man says in a casual drawl, scratching his chin awkwardly. “Not so much Sherlock’s offspring in the direct sense of the word.” And John’s eyes burn bright when the ‘Doctor’ offers him a casual grin as he gestures into the phone box. “Want to come and see?”

~~~

John stares out the open door of the Tardis (it is brilliant, it really is, but the shine is gone without Sherlock to illuminate it for him), flying high in the air. The ashes and smoke trail into the sky from a ruined, blistering chunk of a futuristic London. He can recognize Buckingham Palace in the distance, and the panic of the crowd beneath them resonates with memories of war. “You said that man, the one descended from Sherlock, he did this?”

“Well…” the Doctor hedges. “Khan launched the attack, but the secret weapons being developed accelerated and increased the blast radius.” The Doctor’s eyes stare at John, flinty hard, and he adds more quietly,“He is hurt, and afraid, and very alone, and that makes anyone with Holmes genetic material a danger to both themselves and others; doesn’t matter if it was spliced in through a test tube batch or transferred via traditional reproduction.” The Doctor makes a face and continues in the same breath: “There’s another out there, you know, related to the Holmes through more traditional means. He’s got all the logic and reason but _very_ little of the passion. Vulcan upbringing, go figure.” He shrugs tragically.

John stares at the devastation silently for a few more minutes. Then, he asks: “How can I help?”

Because that is what he does, what he’ll always do. He recognizes in this attack the arrogance and magnitude of force that he always sees – saw – in Sherlock, and he wonders why the scientists who designed this ‘Khan’ fellow failed to temper his very _Holmes_ superiority with some plain common sense, some built-in compassion that needed no coaxing, especially since this man had more than just Sherlock’s intellect, he had futuristic weapons and strength and speed.

He can too easily imagine Sherlock as a conqueror, if he ever grew too bored of solving mysteries. The minutiae of ruling would bore him to tears, but the battles, the strategies, the winning – those would feed his need for stimulation and games, and he could easily raze the world if he ever so chose.

If he were alive. And the thought stings once more. (Don’t be dead, Sherlock. Please.)

But this is a piece of Sherlock, behaving with as much self-destruction much as Sherlock would without anything left to fight for, and far too much anger and hurt spilling out.

The Doctor eyes him pensively. “You must convince him to stop. That there is another way. That there is help, and hope.” He inhales sharply. “That is he _not_ alone.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen to me?” John snorts. “If he’s anything like Sherlock, he won’t listen to a word I say because I am a stranger without any discernible use and therefore probably stupid and irrelevant. If he’s as dangerous as you say he is, he’ll kill me before I can even try.” He shrugs.

“I have seen many things, John Watson, many terrible, wretched things, and I have found that people who are afraid and alone commit the most terrible acts,” the Doctor says seriously, bending close, a twinge of regret in his face. “And this…this is a moment I would choose to change, if I could.”

“So why don’t you?” John is willing to help this poor lost piece of Sherlock, but he’s not convinced he’s necessary. 

The Doctor looks out over the smoldering ruins of London. “I am not a warrior, John Watson, and I am someone who will always turn away from vengeance. That makes me someone Khan could never trust on two counts.” He glances at John, bemused. “You…now _you_ are special. You are human, first and foremost, which makes you one of the most _important_ creatures in all of creation. And for this instance, this one man…you are willing to kill where I never could.”

The Doctor eyes him and the gun in his holster grimly, disapproval in his eyes even as he says,“Khan will not trust someone who will not.” 

He pauses, then adds quietly, as though imparting a great secret: “And you are inclined to be kind.” He gazes at John with old, soulful eyes. “And Khan is a man in _desperate_ need of kindness.”

John sighs, because he knows he’ll agree. There is a part of Sherlock out there that needs him again, and John would be lying if he claimed he could ever deny that call. “Take me to him.”


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khan is not quite sure what to do with John Watson.
> 
> John's not quire sure what to do with Khan, either.
> 
> “Does your plan involve more than you running in, guns blazing?”
> 
> Khan’s mouth closes, and he looks away, aggravated. “That is a plan,” he mutters stiffly.
> 
> “Not a good one, and you’re smarter than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Khan is more like Sherlock than my Scheherezade story, and I'm okay with that.
> 
> Has it occurred to anyone else that Khan really had no plan at all?

Kronos is a hot, dusty planet. John takes a step out of the blue box – “I’ll be here to pick you up when you’re done,” the Doctor promises with a wave. (John doesn’t much expect him to keep his word, there’s too much in the Doctor’s eyes that says he has frequently made the call to let people die, and if this goes south and John fails Sherlock again, he’s not sure he wants to survive anyway.) The blue door closes and the box vanishes. He reaches out and touches the invisible form, still there.

He sees the man the Doctor pointed out, hiding in a cluster of rocks, three massive guns – or perhaps futuristic cannons, John’s not sure, but they gleam a strangely plastic sheen in the red light – beside him, and a cloak draped around his form, the hood thrown back as he runs his hand through his dark, dark hair in an echo of a familiar gesture. 

John smiles unconsciously and continues toward him.

He gets ten feet away when the man whirls on him, grabbing and jamming the gun in John’s face with speed John wishes had been available to him and his unit in Afghanistan. “Who are you and what do you want?” the man says in a clipped tone.

And John can’t help the grin that spreads across his face at the too similar voice, the same infuriatingly superior tones. “Hello,” he says instead, politely, and he can see the mild curiosity light those familiar blue eyes as they scan over his pale blue jumper and scuffed brown shoes. He hadn’t had time to change, and really, there’s nothing better for this extraterrestrial venture than reminders of civilization. “Er, should we be doing this out in the open?” He glances to the side where there are alien ruins with occasional lights – alien ships? – flashing through old skeletons of buildings.

“You will answer me,” Khan bites off, irritation coloring his voice. 

“My name is John Watson,” he says calmly, back straightening. “And I was hoping to have a bit of a chat with you. Khan, is it?”

Khan’s eyes narrow at him; probably not a good sign. (Sherlock does that when he thinks someone’s being deliberately obtuse.) “You are military,” Khan observes suspiciously, eyes running over John’s figure again.

This, too, is familiar, and John’s heart aches even as his grin widens. He suspects Khan thinks he’s a madman, and mostly he agrees, to be on an alien planet so far from home trying to help this piece of Sherlock eons forward. “What gave it away?” he asks, anticipating the deduction to follow. (Deduce me. Know me.)

Khan obliges him. “The stance, the haircut, the way you keep scanning the open terrain for enemies says you’ve seen combat. Your eyes flicker to the left in particular; you’ve been wounded badly before from that direction.” He frowns. “Starfleet has no military. Not yet.”

“I guess not, though I admit I’m not an expert,” John agrees amiably. “Now, could we perhaps find some cover?” He pulls his gun slightly into view, patting what probably looked like an antique to Khan’s sharp eyes. “I’m not exactly prepared to fight aliens. Matter of fact, couldn’t have guessed this morning that I’d be on alien soil.” He lets his jumper fall over the gun holster, ignoring the way Khan’s tensed muscles relax as John’s hands move away from the gun, and he wiggles his shoes on the pressed red dust of Kronos. “Quite amazing, really.” (And John is really quite surprised the air is breathable. He was more taken aback by the color of the sky, but he supposes Sherlock would have noticed the air first.)

“This way,” Khan says brusquely after a split-second decision, and leads him to the nooks and crannies of the rocks. John finds a decently smooth rock and sits on it, and Khan keeps his gun-cannon loosely trained on him. “Who sent you?”

“A madman in a box, claimed he was a doctor.” John makes a mildly derisive sound. “I doubt he’s qualified, blabbered quite a bit. Nice hair, though. Great, really.” He takes a look around the little area. There’s not much besides the gun-like things. There’s a small electronic box that looks like it might be a radio. Or a battery charger, John’s not quite sure. There was an extra bit of fabric that looked like the same material Khan swathed about his figure. And the remains of one lone boot, for whatever reason.

Khan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Why?”

“Because he wanted us to have a conversation. I don’t suppose that there,” he gestured at the electronic box,“produces fancy tea?” He could use a good cuppa. For that matter, so could Khan. He looked stretched thin.

Khan tilts his head slightly, pursing his lips. 

“Guess not. Well. What are those, exactly?” John gestures at the large gun Khan holds in his hands and the two by his feet.

Khan gives him an odd look. “These two are standard plasma rifles – set to kill. This,” he says, hefting the larger gun,“is a pulsar cannon with a nuclear fusion power generator. Half the size, twice the longevity of standard portable pulsar cannons. My design.”

John’s eyes sparkle as he grins. “Well, that’s brilliant.” And it is, even if John doesn’t understand much more than it being stronger and lighter than whatever it had been before Khan got to it. Khan’s posture changes briefly as he straightens with pride and then aborts the movement. Encouraged and intrigued, John asks mischievously,“How many times did it blow up before you got it right?”

Khan purses his lips again, this time mulishly. “Fifteen before I realized the copper alloy wiring Starfleet provided was substandard for use in a plasma coil.”

John chuckles, because of course the failed experiments are the results of someone else’s incompetence. Khan does not join him, and he remembers with a pang that though this is a part of Sherlock, it is not Sherlock. (He remembers sitting by Sherlock in Buckingham Palace, Sherlock wrapped in a sheet and nothing more. And laughing. It hurts to remember.)

Khan does, however, finally lower his pulsar cannon with a look of irritation. “Why are you _here?_ ” he demands.

John twiddles his thumbs. “I’m here to help you, apparently.”

Khan ponders him critically for a moment. “I am stronger, faster, healthier – don’t think I haven’t noticed your limp.”

“That’s psychosomatic,” John explains, embarrassed. He hadn’t realized that the limp was coming back.

Khan continues as though John hasn’t spoken. “I am smarter, well armed, well-defended.” His lip curls in an arrogant sneer. “What use are you to me?”

John mulls over the question thoughtfully. “Well, I knew a man like you, once. I mostly helped him by listening.” (And reminded him to be human once in a while. Sherlock needed that too frequently, so caught up in pure intellect he was.)

“There is no one like me,” Khan says quietly, fiercely, and suddenly John realizes he’s got it all wrong. Khan is indeed not Sherlock – there is too much raw emotion in his voice and jaw and eyes. 

“Perhaps not,” John acknowledges, wheels spinning steadily along. If he was not here to provide a human element, a reminder that people have feelings, the way he did for cool, collected Sherlock who so needed a good kick in the arse sometimes, then what could he offer to someone like Sherlock but at the opposite end of the emotional spectrum? Then, he asks because he’s curious and the Doctor had mentioned multiple ‘Auguments’,“Why not? Aren’t there more like you?”

And he thinks something in Khan breaks as he viciously answers. “There were many of us, designed to be better, superior, and we were. And when our purpose was served, we were discarded. I gathered those I valued most and escaped to the stars, and I alone awoke to a future no better than the one we left. And when I sought to secure our safety, they were all murdered.”

“I’m sorry,” John says quietly, because he is, and he imagines Sherlock surrounded by people he does not despise, who all share his strengths, and it’s a breathtaking vision, even if it leaves no room for people like John, ordinary, damaged John. The loss would be devastating.

Khan’s eyes glitter. “I will avenge each and every last one of them,” he promises.

That was…less good, but John’s willing to hear him out. (If Moriarty weren’t already dead, John would have violated the Geneva Convention several times over.) “Do you know who did it?” 

“A bleating warmonger named Marcus.” He says the name much the same way Sherlock said Anderson’s, only with more hate. 

“Do you have a plan?” Because anyone imbued with Sherlock’s genius and temperament would mistake impulse for planning. 

Khan gives him a sidelong glance. “Are you offering to help?” He sounds amused.

John sighs. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, because he doubts lying will help either of them. His response startles Khan. He can see those eyes widen and those lips part unconsciously. Feeling bold and going off months of experience with Sherlock, John gives him a crooked smile. “Does your plan involve more than you running in, guns blazing?” (And they were running after a taxi, wild and out of breath.)

Khan’s mouth closes, and he looks away, aggravated. “That is a plan,” he mutters stiffly.

“Not a good one, and you’re smarter than that,” John points out; this is all-too familiar territory, and he feels something in him ease. “What are you doing on this planet, anyway? Is this Marcus fellow here?”

“No.” Khan’s tone is clipped, but it lacks the dangerous bite of earlier.

“So you’re here because…?”

The loud exhale moves though Khan’s entire body. “Marcus will undoubtedly send someone after me. They will trace my teleport to this planet, and Marcus will not be able to resist the allure of killing two birds with one stone.”

John looks at him skeptically. “What else does he accomplish if he gets you here?”

Khan’s smile is vicious and bright and John’s stomach falls. “If the Klingons find a Federation starship on their homeworld, they will see it as provocation. The Federation will find themselves at war with the Klingon Empire, just as Marcus wants. He will be unable to resist the opportunity to get the war he’s always wanted.”

That…was a plan. A bad one. “Why give this Marcus bloke what he wants?” This was the most bewildering part. “He sends a ship after you, he stays home, gets the war of his dreams, you probably die…No, not a good plan.”

Khan glares at him. “I don’t plan on staying _here_ while this happens. You noticed the ships patrolling the ruins,” he says with a sharp jerk of his head at the buildings in the distance. “A small matter to commandeer one and hunt down Marcus just when he believes he has everything he’s ever wanted.” The deranged, disturbing glee in his voice bothers John.

“You’re going to start a war...an intergalactic war, to be precise…just to kill one man?” He asks, disappointed. This bit of Sherlock may feel a great deal, but not much for others. He supposes it’s a Holmes quirk to never be fully emotionally balanced.

Khan’s eyes narrow as he hisses,“If I can’t be with my family, neither will anyone else.”

Well, that sort of selfish vindictiveness makes more sense through a Sherlock-colored lens, unfortunately. “That’s not well-done of you, you do realize that, right?” he chides gently. (Bit not good.)

Khan blinks at him, then holds his hands wide mockingly. “Why, Mr. Watson,” he purrs,“Were you expecting otherwise?”

“It’s Doctor Watson, actually,” he corrects blithely,“And yes, I admit, I expected better of you.”

“Oh, Doc-tor?” Khan punctuates the syllables sarcastically. “If you came here expecting to find a good man, you were doomed to disappointment.”

John shakes his head, suddenly tired. “I came here expecting nothing more than to find a great man,” he says quietly. “Your plan amounts to little more than wanton destruction not just of those around you, but yourself as well. And you cannot be that much superior genetically if you can’t see what an utter and complete _waste_ that is.” And he does not back down, does not avert his even gaze as Khan, the most broken bit of Sherlock John could only imagine in his nightmares, stares at him. 

And then the box – the radio, it appears – comes on as a male voice begins to speak in an official fashion. “Attention, John Harrison. This is Captain Hikaru Sulu of the USS Enterprise. A shuttle of highly trained officers is on its way to your location. If you do not surrender to them immediately, I will launch the entire payload of advanced long-range torpedoes, currently locked onto your location. You have two minutes to confirm your compliance. Refusal to do so will result in your obliteration. If you test me, you will fail.”

John notices a couple of things: Khan’s back stiffens at the name ‘John Harrison’, and his face goes completely pale –moreso than he already was– at the mention of the torpedoes. “The torpedoes, that’s bad, yeah?” He wonders if it’s too late to make his way back to the invisible blue box, if it’s still there. Two minutes is not a lot of time.

“It can’t be…” Khan whispers raggedly, eyes wide like a child’s. He notices John watching him, and he shakes himself sharply. “The torpedoes – I have to be sure.” He stands up and slings one gun strap around his torso and grabs the remaining two. He weighs them in his hands thoughtfully before he tosses one at John, who barely catches it. “Here, use this when things get combustive.”

Adrenaline begins to surge through John, the excitement a familiar sensation. “Er, I’m not sure I know how to-“

Khan sighs impatiently. “Point and shoot. You’re a soldier, figure it out.” And he pulls the hood of his cloak over his head, and stalks out from the rocks toward the ruins as the lights of the alien ships begin to spin and fly.

In the dim light of Kronos’ foreign sun, his lean form, determined stride, and swirling cape blur into Sherlock’s solid back and his long coat. (Wait, Sherlock.)

John follows, never once glancing in the direction of the blue box and escape.


End file.
